He pulled on a pair of pants and I tried not to stare at the hard muscles of his quads as he hauled the cloth over them. Then another of those loose white shirts, that magnificent chest slowly disappearing as he fastened it up. I realized I hadn’t even started dressing yet and scrambled into the khaki t-shirt he passed me. Made for his much bigger frame, it hung midway down my thighs. A pair of his black shorts drowned me, too, but I managed to cinch them in just enough with a belt that they’d stay on. There. I was decent. Except….
“What?” he frowned, noticing how I was squirming uncomfortably.
I flushed and adjusted things again, but...nope. My soaking underwear was just too damp and cold against my skin. It would drive me crazy. “One sec,” I told him. Keeping the t-shirt on, I fumbled about underneath it, unhooked my bra, and managed to extract it and drop it on the deck. My panties weren’t so straightforward. I had to wrap the towel around my legs, drop the shorts, step out of the panties and pull the shorts on again, all while trying not to drop the towel. Finally, I was done. “There,” I said with great relief.
And realized I’d just treated him to some sort of bizarre semi-clothed striptease. And now he was giving me that look, that scorching one that turned me molten inside, the one that said you teased me. Now I’m going to pounce.
I swallowed. I didn’t mean to— But it was too late. I could feel the pull between us, just as I had at McKinley’s. The air between us seemed to sing and crackle. I couldn’t look away from those deep blue eyes, gleaming in the moonlight….
And part of me wanted him to. Part of me wanted him to just grab me, even though I hardly knew him.
Rourke tore his gaze away and stared off towards the horizon. I could see how his whole body had gone tense and hard, his biceps straining against the cotton of his shirt. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth, as if barely controlling himself. “If the map’s right, the Hawk’s in shallow water, off the coast of an island. No point heading there now: it’s too dangerous to dive at night. We should drop anchor here and sail on in the morning. We should be there before noon and I can dive down and take a look.”
I nodded.
He looked me right in the eye. “Until then, we should get some sleep.”
Where? In his cabin? How many beds are there on this thing? Does he mean…?
So many questions. But when he led me below deck, I forgot them all.
It was completely different to Ratcher’s boat. I couldn’t figure out why, at first. They were both made for the same thing: hunting for treasure. They both had to store equipment and have room for eating and sleeping and stuff. And yet….
Ratcher’s boat had been all white fiberglass, giving it an almost alien feel. This was all polished wood and brass, warm where the other boat was cold. Where Ratcher’s boat was dirty, this was scrupulously clean and tidy. And where Ratcher’s was new but badly cared for, this was old but well-loved.
It felt like a home. That was the difference. Ratcher’s ship was just somewhere he and the crew were based when they were out at sea: Ratcher lived in his villa. But Rourke slept here every night.
“Are these the cabins?” I asked. I opened a door…and stopped. It had been a cabin, once. But the bed’s mattress had gone and it was piled with oxygen tanks. The closet doors were missing and I could see wetsuits inside. I had a feeling the other cabins would be the same: he’d given over the space to equipment.
He had no need of the space because he slept here all alone.
I spun and stared at him and he must have seen the realization in my eyes because he looked away, embarrassed. Why the hell was a guy as gorgeous as him all alone?
“I sleep here,” he muttered, nodding his head at the main room. “But you can have it tonight.”
I started to protest but he cut me off as soon as I opened my mouth. “I’ll sleep fine out on deck,” he told me.
I nodded shyly, grateful for the sacrifice. I was pretty sure I couldn’t sleep out there, so close to the ocean. But then I looked around, confused. I didn’t see a bed, or anything that could be turned into a bed. “When you say here….”
He pulled a tight roll of cloth from a nook and shook it out. It was only when he hooked one end to the wall that I remembered something I’d seen before, when I first came to his boat. I’m going to sleep in a hammock?!
He passed me the other end and pointed me towards the opposite wall but I couldn’t find the ring where the hook went, at first. He had to squeeze past me to show me and, with the room being small and him so big—
Suddenly, we were chest-to-chest. The softness of my breasts rolled up against his pecs and I caught my breath. I’m big enough that it’s very rare I don’t wear a bra. I wasn’t ready for how intimate it felt, the heat of him throbbing through the thin t-shirt. And—Oh God, my nipples were still standing out hard from being cold, scraping against him—
He swallowed, his eyes locked on mine. He took my hand in his big, warm one to guide it to the ring...but then he just paused there, gently squeezing it, as if he’d forgotten what he meant to do. Our breathing was in sync and every time that big, muscled chest lifted and expanded, my breasts were crushed harder against it. I was lost in those eyes again, speechless. I fumbled along the wall for the ring, hooked the hook into it—
Something heavy and warm and alive jumped onto my hand and scampered up my arm, heading straight for my face. I let out a scream and tried to move back, but the newly-hung hammock was behind me and all I did was stretch it until it was tight across my shoulders. Meanwhile, the thing had reached my elbow. I had a glimpse of fur and eyes and claws and then it was on my upper arm, my collarbone—
Tiny hands sunk into my hair. Tiny feet scrabbled on the upper slopes on my breasts. Two big, brown eyes stared into mine from just a few inches away and a mouth filled with white teeth shrieked EEEEEEP!
I kicked backwards with my feet to get away. The hammock twisted and I went with it, screaming again as my feet shot towards the ceiling and my head careened towards the floor in a graceless backward somersault. Only the fact that my hands were tangled in the hammock stopped me dropping to the floor. The thing on my face was still screeching, its screech and my scream blending together—
Strong hands grabbed my shoulders and pushed me back up to vertical. A leg hooked around my ankles and guided my feet until they found the floor.
And then he pulled the monkey from my face.
The monkey and I fell silent and just stared at each other, panting. It was about the size of my head, covered in brown fur except for a little pink face and tiny pink paws.
“Yo-Yo,” explained Rourke.
‘You—” I blinked. “You have a monkey.”
Yo-Yo scurried up onto Rourke’s shoulder and took cover behind his head, then peeked shyly out.
“Picked him up in Cairo.” Rourke reached up to pet him. Yo-Yo grabbed hold of his finger and nestled his little face against Rourke’s palm.
My heart melted: now that it wasn’t leaping in my face, the thing was adorable.
“The guy who owned him wasn’t treating him well,” Rourke said with a grimace.
“So you rescued him?” My heart melted in a whole different way.
“No!” said Rourke defensively. “He didn’t give me a choice. Rode out of there on my head and wouldn’t let go. Edwards said we should keep him. And…” He looked away. “I like having the wee man around. He doesn’t talk back to me.”
I tentatively reached out and petted Yo-Yo. He tilted his head to one side as if deciding, then rocketed up my arm. This time, though, I was ready for it and let him scamper over my shoulder and onto my back. He buried his paws in my hair to hang on and cuddled up to the back of my neck, and I giggled. It was the first time I’d relaxed since Katherine fell ill. And, just for a second, I thought I saw Rourke give a little smile, too.
It was a happy moment. Then I ruined it. “Who’s Edwards?” I asked innocently.
Instantly, Rourke closed off. It was as
if a shutter had come down between us. “Head’s in there,” he said, pointing to a door. “I’ll be on deck. Get some sleep.”
Before I could ask what the head was, he was gone, the door closing behind him. Shit! What had I said? Who was Edwards, that he caused that kind of reaction?
I was too wired to sleep so I explored. I discovered that the head was the toilet and found a cupboard that held blankets. The other cabins were stuffed with equipment, just as I’d thought. There was a tiny kitchen, well-stocked with food. And that was it. A cozy little home...but God, it seemed like such a lonely life.
Something caught my eye, high in one corner of the room. It was almost hidden and I had to climb up on a cupboard to see it properly. A photo of Rourke, a few years younger. And next to him, grinning, a blond-haired man in a Hawaiian shirt. Edwards?
I was exhausted but my brain was still racing: I knew I wouldn’t sleep yet. So I did what I always did: I reached for a book.
Shit!
My whole bag of books was still on Ratcher’s boat! I closed my eyes and groaned. That actually bothered me more than losing my clothes. Being bookless, especially away from home, was like a physical pain. Disappearing into a book is how I normally switch my brain off and wind down.
Rourke must have a book. He lived here full time, after all. I began to search the shelves. It might even teach me a little about him...and I was so eager to learn more about him, it was embarrassing.
But a search of every shelf and every cupboard turned up nothing: not a techno-thriller, not a history book, nothing. The only thing I found was an old, gray reference book called The Shipboard Doctor: A Guide to Emergency Medicine at Sea.
That’s it? He doesn’t read for pleasure? I had trouble even processing that concept.
I fingered the book and then pulled it from the shelf. It was either that or have nothing to read and this was me.
It took me four attempts to get into the hammock—or at least to stay in. Yo-Yo retreated to a safe distance while I rolled and swung and was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Only when I was finally in and cautiously relaxing did he spring across the room and land on my leg, which made me jump so much I almost tipped us both out again. Then he settled down on my bare feet, acting like a furry comforter, and I sighed in relief and opened the book.
The Shipboard Doctor managed to be both dull and terrifying, full of grave instructions on how to amputate a man’s arm when it’s been crushed between rocks, or what drugs to give following horrific jellyfish stings. I flipped to the front and wasn’t surprised to find it had been written by another Scot: I could almost hear Rourke’s growling accent as I read it. In the case of air in the chest cavity compressing the heart, do not delay. Thrust a hollow needle into—
I skipped a lot of the pictures.
But it did work to quiet my mind. And the ginger seemed to have done the trick with quelling my nausea. The soft rocking of the hammock was almost relaxing and the creaks and groans of the ship, which worried me at first, started to become familiar and comforting. It was almost as if it was alive. And it smelled good, like old wood and lamp oil.
The book flopped down onto my stomach. I hadn’t been sure if I’d be able to sleep, given everything that was going on. But I was exhausted, it was warm under the blanket and having Yo-Yo cuddled up to my feet helped, too. I began to doze. And my mind started to wander.
Rourke. With his sword and the growly authority of a captain and that sense of honor he gave off...he felt like a man out of time. For all he kept saying this was no place for me, it almost seemed like it was no place for him: he might be bad-tempered and prickly but he wasn’t cruel like Ratcher. He felt like a man who’d try to do the right thing, however hard he denied it. So how had he wound up in Nassau, surrounded by criminals?
And... I shifted slightly in the hammock. That chest, broad but narrowing down to that tight, powerful core. The way the water had coursed down it when he hauled himself up onto the launch, tan skin shining. The way he’d loomed over me, his size making me feel small. I’m not a slender, delicate thing like my sister: I don’t often get to feel small. But Rourke did it to me every time I was around him.
I shifted in the hammock again, straightening my legs and crushing my thighs together a little. I was on the edge of sleep, now, my thoughts slow and dreamy. I saw Rourke standing in just his jockey shorts, the bulge growing as he stared down at me. That’s crazy. Why would I do that to him? He can have any woman he wants.
And yet he lived here all alone, snapping at everyone to keep them away.
And yet he’d agreed to help me.
A warm ache began in my groin. That moment when our chests had brushed together: I could still feel every tiny contact of my hardened nipples against his pecs. Just for a second, as he’d held my hand, I thought he was about to—
If Yo-Yo hadn’t jumped out at me....
But then I’d gone and blown it by asking about Edwards. Now he was mad at me. And he was the only shot I had at saving Katherine and saving myself.
My hand had wandered down to the waistband of the borrowed shorts, my fingertips nudging underneath. I snatched it back. No. This had to stop now, before I messed things up and he changed his mind about helping me. Katherine had less than a week. And as for me…. I deliberately hadn’t told Rourke that the disease would hit me, too. I was worried that, if I’d told him, he would have taken me straight to a hospital. But I knew a hospital couldn’t help me. My only hope lay in that stone.
I couldn’t afford to mess this up. From now on, I had to keep my distance.
With my clothes still on and Yo-Yo warming my feet, it was too warm for the blanket. I sleepily pushed it off onto the floor: perfect. I finally dozed off.
At first, everything was peaceful. But as the wind rose outside and the boat rose and fell, the feel of the waves dislodged memories.
I’d kept them pushed down inside me, buried under the safe, solid ground of the prairies. But now I was here, there was nothing to stop them bursting up to the surface, huge and dark, looming over me.
No! I twisted in my sleep and tried to fight my way awake, knowing what was coming.
But it was too late. I was already there.
14
Hannah
We made the trip from Nebraska to California in two days of non-stop driving. Our folks good-naturedly bickered in the front, Katherine—age eight—acted out an elaborate princess-themed drama with her dolls next to me and me—age ten—steadily worked my way through a big bag of books. I’d look up every few hours, check that the highway looked the same, and immerse myself again. Only when I saw my first palm tree did I stop and gawp, open-mouthed. And then I saw the ocean, glittering and alive, indescribably beautiful.
For five days we took in the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz and then Rodeo Drive and Hollywood Boulevard and Disneyland. But we kept putting off the beach. Finally, on the sixth day, Dad was visiting an old friend and Mom was driving us back to our motel. We were on a coast road and, suddenly, the sea was right there, beside the car.
Even fifteen years on, in a nightmare, my question still makes me wince. It was all my fault.
“Mom?” I asked. “Can we go in the sea?”
Mom shook her head. “We’ll do a proper beach day soon.”
“But tomorrow we’re going to the Getty and then Dad wants to go to that battleship museum thing. We’ll run out of time.” We passed a perfect, deserted cove. “Look! We could go right there. Just for a minute? Please?”
Katherine loyally joined in. “Pleeease?”
Mom glanced across at the cove once, twice. I thought she was going to drive right past it. But at the last possible second, she gave one of her trademark long-suffering grins, slewed the car across the road, and pulled over. We whooped.
Minutes later, we were down on the beach. The sun was low in the sky and the sand was just the right temperature under our feet. The water was incredibly clear and at least as warm as the air. We paddled in a l
ine, holding hands. I was entranced, watching the waves roll in towards us. I’d never seen the sea up close before. Katherine was giggling and even Mom looked glad we’d come.
“Can we swim?” I asked. We were all good swimmers: Mom had insisted we learn at the local pool. And I wanted to feel what it was like to be lifted by a wave.
Mom shook her head. “Not without your father here. I want to be able to keep an eye on both of you, in case a wave hits you.”
“There are no waves there,” said Katherine, pointing.
We looked. She was right: just a little way down the beach, there was a stretch of water that was like a millpond, its surface barely rippling.
“Huh,” said Mom, frowning. She walked us over to investigate. The water was as calm as it had looked from a distance. “Well...okay, I guess. Just for a minute.”
We waded out and it was like a huge, warm bathtub. We giggled and sploshed and swam, as content as a family of otters. Minutes stretched into an hour: the sun had almost set.
Then Katherine turned around and frowned. “Mommy? We’re a long way out.”
Mom and I both turned and—
What I saw didn’t match what I remembered. I was looking at distant cliffs and beaches, the highway just a thread of black. The cove we’d swum from was a tiny detail in the center. How did we get so far out?
“Okay, girls,” said Mom, her voice carefully calm. “Start swimming back to shore, now.”
I didn’t argue. I could see how pale she’d gone.
We struck out for shore at a steady pace. It’s not so bad, I reassured myself. It’ll be a funny story to tell Dad: we swam too far out and it took us forever to swim back in.
But after ten solid minutes of swimming, we weren’t any closer. If anything, the cove was retreating away from us. And that meant….
That meant we were heading out to sea.
I looked around me and that was the first time the sea changed in my mind, shifting from a fun stretch of water next to a beach, something you paddle and swim in, to being the ocean, that vast, cold, desolate thing that only big ships should go on. We shouldn’t be out here.
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